


Trench Fever

by ForeignTongues



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, One Shot, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8822149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeignTongues/pseuds/ForeignTongues
Summary: It's the beginning of the First World War - Merlin joins to stent his impatience of life. Before entering the trenches, a soldier helps him to a conclusion: his death would bring about Arthur's return. A fair trade, especially for a man long past dead.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Triggers are listed in the tags. This was an idea I had for another fic, but I decided to write it out on its own. I honestly think this is my favorite fic I've ever written.   
> I hope you enjoy; let me know what you think in the comments. Any constructive criticism is welcome.  
> Thank you for reading! Happy holidays.

Trench Fever

 

The night is closing in, a new era of a new moon underneath Arthur's eye lids.   
His fingers are lined with tremors that lace the movement of Arthur's slack jaw, which rocked underneath the shadow of Merlin's begging.

"Stay with me," he breathed, twisting his features into that of false joy, so that the last thing Arthur would know would not be the terrible hopelessness of his friend.   
Arthur's eyes trembled open for a bare moment, exposing a crescent moon, still descending into darkness, still not enough light. 

Merlin grinned and tasted salt, barely catching a glimpse of Arthur's last moment of sentience before giving up the ghost.

"No, no Arthur, please-"   
Merlin began to move back and forth, a cradle for a child born then returned to the night. 

He began sobbing now, never mind the dripping of snot and tears onto Arthur's chainmail, it wasn't like it mattered, because he was gone, no reason to worry about polishing because the only thing that counted was dulled. 

He could feel the physical tightening of his throat, prepared to allow his demons to claw their way out, as if deafening roars of discontent would really suffice in healing the metaphysical wounds.

"Arthur!" He cried.  
"I've failed you, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Arthur, it wasn't meant to be like this, I'm sorry-"

"Hey mate, it's alright, wake up man!"

A gust of life shrugged through him, refraining from the memories, returning to the sagging cot and linens bundled underneath Merlin, the dim light of the lantern in the center of the tent, the man hunching over him as he forced Merlin to awareness.  
"Sorry, but you started shouting in your sleep. 'Was annoying some of the crew, but you didn't look to be having the best of times either."

Merlin sat up on the cot, the mattress crunching as his elbows established the means of a better angle. The shadowed man's face revealed to be jaunt, his already sharp features standing out in the midst of war starvation. Even his shaven beard resembled rough sandpaper, his mandatory bald-cut hair hidden underneath a cap only slightly too small. 

"Right, my apologies, sir..." Merlin rubbed his calloused fingers over the sleep in his eyes. "Didn't mean to disturb anyone."

"It's alright man. Hey, what's your name? I don't believe we've served together before."

Merlin looked intently at him. Even through his standoffish demeanor and the harsh intent of battle, he seemed a bright young man, probably around his late twenties. Probably too hopeful about the outcome of his service.

"Reese. You?" Merlin responded, offering a hand.

"McCarthy. Most call me Mick," he replied smoothly, lines summoned from memory many times before. "Reese, ay? That short for something?"

"Uh, Emrys." Merlin grimaced. He'd gone by Earl for too many centuries; he felt Reese had a better ring to it. 

"Emrys? What kind of hippie parents named you, kid?" Mick laughed, brushing the linens on his cot beside Merlin and sitting gruffly. 

Merlin wanted to smile, but it fell flat, like the beer Johnson kept stocked in his pack for the crew to drink in celebration for making it this far, before facing their mortality once more.

"Well, for starters, I'm not a kid, you're barely older than me-" (though, a man of 1,000 years surely held much more time over a boy of 30), "and they didn't really have a choice in the matter. Family name, passed down to certain males. Dad couldn't disappoint Mum," he lied, though the 'family' name and 'didn't have a choice' seemed true enough.

"Y'know you can change it, right? I mean, I guess Reese makes up for the hippie lingo, kid."

Merlin gave a half-assed glare for show, not really caring to get into any form of juvenile banter. He didn't reciprocate his humor with many people any more.   
He ran his fingers through the greasy buzz cut he sported, which would've made him self conscious at some point with his consistently large ears, but Merlin could care less at the moment, what with gunfire and the earth mixing mud with the blood of crushed soldiers in trenches only miles out. 

Training was a breeze. In his time of living, you picked up easy skills like progressing to each century's new technology, or picking up spells that emanated inhuman endurance. The First World War wasn't a landmark in Merlin's perspective. It was just something to do.

"What was that dream you were having about, anyway? You kept calling for some "Arthur". That your friend or something?" Mick pried, his curiosity peaking from extensive boredom leading to stag nights of card games, soldiers betrothed to the casket, grooms picking out their funeral tuxes. Anything to get their minds off of the crude reality would help; there were no secrets amongst dead men. 

"No, um; he's my son," Merlin drew from the air around him, "He died young."

Mick hung his head as a sign of respect, letting his hat slide limply to his fingers and over his chest. "I'm sorry for your loss, Reese. How old was he?"

"Not old enough to reach his potential."  
Merlin let his lashes fall as he rested back on the cot, arms snuggled securely underneath the pillow. Most of the other soldiers were sleeping, but a few, like him and Mick, sat speaking quietly. He could hear the light snickering of the cronies in the corner, too caught up with stories of who they'ed taken to bed to understand the situation they were in. 

Escapism is the new reality, Merlin mused. 

"You're not hitting the lights on me are you? I need to keep my brain jogging and alert; I can't sleep with all the shots. They jolt me awake." Mick leaned forward on his cot, intruding Merlin's space above his head. "If you can't fight 'em, join 'em."

"I'm not sure that's the battle mantra they teach in training," Merlin responded restlessly, "More like: 'Dying matters more if you're a martyr for some cause'.

"You don't agree?" 

"Nah. You're dead all the same. Everyone goes out with a bang here; none of us are heroes. We're just taking lives to postpone the death of other ones."

Mick scoffed, a little surprised. "That's deep shit for some twenty-year-old. Maybe you should be the priest instead; geezer Howard likes Revelations, and the rest of the Word is history," he joked. "All hell fire, armageddon. Be nice to hear something else for a change."

"I'm afraid that I wouldn't be a good enough Bible thumper for you. Mine is collecting dust on a shelf back in England."

"So you're not the religious type?"

"More of a philosopher."

Mick laughed. "Why the hell are you here in the midst of blazing glory, then? Were you drafted?"

"I signed up."

"God- you know, you seem like someone who really could do something with his life, not wasting it out here as we starve like dogs. Have you got some kind of death wish?"

Mick stared intently at Merlin. It took a few moments for him to reply, as if he were mulling over the question with great care.

"Haven't thought of it that way before," Merlin finally spoke, fiddling with the threads of his standard olive-bile shirt. 

"Is it because of Arthur?" Mick spoke tentatively. His jovial nature seemed to freeze in midair, as if some connection of understanding was shared between the men. Merlin wouldn't have been surprised; the air out here was cold enough to freeze anything from the physical to the mental planes. 

"You could say that." Merlin flicked his eyes over to Mick, who still sat hunched over his own cot. "You've lost someone as well?"

"My lady," Mick bit his cheek.   
Bits of imagery of a warm, gentle queen with a smile like silk came and passed from Merlin's mind.  
"She died of breast cancer five months back. At least she didn't have to live through this shit storm." Mick sighed and shook his head.

"I'm sorry," Merlin said quietly.

"Yeah. Me too."

-

"Rise and shine ladies!"

Merlin felt his muscles tense all over, his shoulders drawing up and pressing over the majority of his ears. 

"Come on, off your asses! We have a war to win!"

Carmichael, an army veteran and leader of one-too-many brigades, was too chipper for any of their liking. A man with that survival rate would be put in check, if not by a bullet, then by the fists fellow of crew members. 

Merlin opened his eyes gently, reminiscing the feeling of laying late at night, staring at the the ceiling of the draping tent, knowing time was at a standstill, if not at peace. 

"Today is the day that we head to the trenches. I expect you all to be in line ready to march at 0600 hours."

Begrudgingly, a series of 'Sir, yes Sir's sounded, Merlin's voice trapped by the pressed pillow. 

"You better get up, Reese. If Carmichael comes back and sees you still laying down, he'll put you at the front of the line."

Merlin twisted himself off of the bed, landing on the pounded dirt. He watched as Mick laced his shoes, while he reached for his own. 

"No rest for the wicked, right?" Merlin commented, waiting as Mick yawned belatedly. The man smirked, which succeeded in casting an even darker contour underneath his lashes. 

"I believe the saying goes, "Come to me, oh weary of heart, and find ye rest."

"Whatever. Us philosophers are here to keep you optimists in reality," Merlin replied. His fingers fumbled with his laces, but finally looped the dragon through its lair. He brushed a hand over his head before sticking the cap right on top, blending in as a caricature of safety with the terrain. 

"Have fun dying miserable."

"Have fun dying ignorant."

Mick scoffed again before grabbing his bag. He took a tight swig of beer from his water pouch, lips pressing against the euphoria of youth.

"'S that beer or water?" Merlin inquired, his own pouch drained and throat parched. 

"See for yourself."  
Mick handed him the half-full pouch and Merlin took a generous swig. 

"Save some for the march, kid."  
Merlin gulped down the amber liquid, stingy for some final luxury. He tossed the pouch back.

"Not so sure there'll be a march for me."

Mick arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Merlin let his vision gloss, unfocused over the dull coloring of everything under the tent. Most everything under the sun was dull, for that matter. Not much splendor left. Hadn't been any since the death of Medieval times. 

"I've done some thinking," his tongue rolled dryly in his mouth, "about that 'death wish' of mine."

Mick cautiously set down the bag he'd been adjusting, giving his full attention to Merlin, who still sat stubbornly on the ground. 

"All this time... I've waited. And waited. And the only variable that exists for Arthur's return is me. It's not that I haven't thought about it- I marvel at the idea. But, each time I've come close to trying to eradicate myself, the Triple Goddess has stopped me. She said that I'm the only one who can bring Arthur back. And yet, she's never specified how. Who's to stay I've been stalling for the right time? A life for a life; his for mine. Maybe, I was never meant to see him."

"I have to stop you right there, Reese- wait are you even saying? What's a Triple Goddess-"

"My desires match with what destiny needs. The death of the most ancient thing alive would give enough power to bring back the most valuable person."

Merlin fiddled his hand behind him, reaching under the bed for his pack. As he spoke, he unlocked the buckles, and stole his knife from the inside pocket.  
He observed the growing unease on Mick's face, the confusion of Merlin's steady explanation and ghostly cast causing him to reach out and place a gentle hand on Merlin's shoulder.

"Reese, we can fight this," Mick whispered, letting his fingers tighten around the muscle reassuringly, "Your death will not bring your son back, but your sacrifice could save the lives of hundreds."

"You're wrong," Merlin let his gaze fall to the weapon he retracted. He smiled, forlorn, when no reflection of light bounced off of the metal that he tilted over carefully. "My death would save the fate of everyone in Albion. I'm ready, Arthur."

Merlin grabbed the hilt of the knife roughly and made a quick move towards his neck.

"God, Reese, stop!" Mick yelled, gathering the attention of everyone in the bunker. He lunged toward Merlin, grabbed his arm in a tight hold against the strain of Merlin dragging it to his throat.

"Let the coward do it!" Called one of the cronies. "Always the first to go, but usually they hit the battlefield before!"

"Can it, Dick!" Mick spat. There were tears falling on Merlin's face now, but he seemed resigned, not afraid. "Someone help me!"

Merlin pled with Mick for mercy as soldiers grabbed at his extremities.

"Let me go!" Merlin bellowed. A gust of the Old Religion fled his body, allowing him to buck off his restraints.   
In the moment where tangled bodies flew once more to grasp him, Merlin dug the tip of the knife downward into his forearm, then carved towards the inner elbow in solid motion.  
"Gah!" He groaned, panting from the pain. He could smell the blood before it welled up; iron, like the tainted water they drank; life blood, like the amber that flushed their cheeks. 

"God dammit!" Mick sputtered. The other men looked on helplessly and the knife clattered on the floor.

"The coward had more strength in him than I thought!" Dick laughed from across room, while his mates worked to grin along with him. 

"I swear to God, Dick. If you don't shut your trap, I'll come over and shut it for you!"

"Big words for a man who can't even wrestle a knife off of a scrawny ass!"

Mick turned and thrust his fist into Dick's jaw in a fit of rage before crew mates came and restrained him as well.  
He bent his knuckles, bleeding and raw, threatening the members around him while the cronies came to nurse the likely dislocation of Dick's jaw.

"Silence!" 

All eyes moved to Carmichael, who stood at the opening of the tent, drawing with him pure authority and vibrating silence. His shoulders were tensed, a deep frown littering his face like the scars all over, marking his time of life as much as the age spots.

"Would someone kindly," he gritted his teeth, "tell me what in the hell is going on?!"

"Sir, it's Reese-" Mick answered, shrugging off the soldiers with a disdainful glare. "He's been injured."

As if on que, Merlin sputtered a pool of bile near the polished shoes of his team. Most stepped back in disgust before Mick ran to him.

Dipping down to his knees, Mick began shredding the linen of his shirt, using the straggling pieces to wrap around the arm of a semi-conscious Merlin.

"Hey, mate, it's going to be alright. Just hold on for me, okay?" Mick spoke in a stern, resolute tone. Then, aside, "-can someone please bring the medical doctor? And Randal, William, help me pick him up."

As if Merlin were Moses sent to free the Egyptians from tyranny, the soldiers parted in half for the four men to get by, a trail of the Red Sea soaking the dirt as well as their hands. 

Merlin was loosing blood at a rate that didn't seem very optimistic. It was the right time. Perhaps I won't ever see Arthur again, he thought as the numb sensations of doctors and nurses and needles and cots prodded at the skin deep senses, never quite reaching or connecting. But, at least I'll bring him back to life. 

It's what I was born to do. Born to die.

Through the blurred lights and nicks at the tear in his arm, the strongest notion was that of the stench. It took a minute for him to realize- it was his blood. 

What should've been a soothing thought egged another bout of bile that about clogged his throat before he was skillfully tilted to the side. Everything felt immensely cold, unnaturally lonely. This wasn't what he'd planned.

-

72 hours passed before Merlin regained consciousness.   
He hadn't expected to; he suddenly felt remorse for not attempting this trial sooner before medicinal technology and knowledge was innovated. Gaius would scarcely believe the advancement.

"Gaius..." Merlin mumbled. He hadn't bothered to remember his uncle for a number of decades. The mind became a palace where all those born in his time were locked away with careful keys, until an untimely trigger picked the locks. 

It made his heart ache with an indescribable longing. More importantly, his arm was aching with a fierce determination. As he gradually came to, the fire grew in temperature.

"Mm," he moaned lightly, before forcing his lids to open so his eyes may acquaint with the newfound light.   
A nurse, noticing his awakening, came to his bedside.  
"Mr. Reese, we've stitched your arm back together. You've had a blood transfusion, though risky it was, seeing as you hadn't filed your blood type- which, as soon as you're able, I need you to tell me- and Mr. McCarthy was the donor. You have him to thank for your life."

Merlin spared her little notice as he laid seeping in his piteous misery, when the mention of McCarthy sprung memory.   
"Mick?" He cracked his lips in anticipation, putting in what was way too much effort for a simple syllable.   
"Yes, he saved you," the nurse grinned in reassurance, as if the tent wasn't smothered in sweat and blood, as if there weren't men crying out for loved ones on the cots beside them, as if Merlin hadn't recently attempted suicide, as if there wasn't a World War raging on their doorstep.

"...Where? 'S 'kay?" Merlin proceeded to inquire, a little agitated by the nurse's lack of intuition. Or maybe it was just a lack of empathy.

The nurse paused, her smile slipping for a fraction of a second, before grabbing a needle and filling it to the brim. 

"We'll talk more once you're not in a delirium. I can just tell by looking at you that your fever is through the roof. This will be just a little pinch," she said, poising the needle at the main artery which he'd earlier almost severed.

"No," Merlin coughed, his feeble hands pushing away the medicine. "Mick."

The nurse pursed her thin lips, which drew aging lines into the rest of her youthful appearance.   
"I'm not supposed to let you get excited, you must understand that," she half-pled with Merlin. 

"Mick."

Sighing, the nurse brushed loose hairs back under her hat before taking the cot from behind and lifting the hinges. Merlin was now upright, and highly uncomfortable. The nurse noticed this with the scrunching of his nose, then said, "It was your call."

Merlin was deciding that he really didn't care for this nurse when he suddenly saw McCarthy across the room, a breath mask lining his mouth, and soaking bandages wrapping around his bare chest. 

His eyes grew wide while his pulse throbbed against the sewn skin of his arm. 

"What-"

"What happened? He was shot, one three millimeters from the heart, and another in his right heel. He'd already given so much blood..." The nurse paused. "We don't expect him to make it through the night."

Merlin felt tears streaming off his chin and plunking on the white cotton sheets he was trapped under. 

"I'm sorry for your loss."

When Merlin looked back at the nurse, she had already moved on to her rounds. 

It was war. People died.  
So why did one life, out of the millions he'd met, cause him heartbreak? Merlin had witnessed deaths far and wide, all different causes, all concluded as the cycle of life.   
Except-

"I can't feel a pulse!" A nurse beckoned. Feet shuffled and crowded around the mangled form of the once great, optimistic McCarthy. Doomed to die as a martyr.   
Merlin let himself slip back into unconsciousness by the time he realized; the Triple Goddess had traded Mick's life to save his own. 

A life for a life; his life for mine. 

When would he know death? 

When would Arthur know life?


End file.
